


The Ratio of Freckles to Stars

by fictionalaspect



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe-Urban Fantasy, Dreams, Dreamwalking, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Runaway, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalaspect/pseuds/fictionalaspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the bottom of stairs, Ryan dithered, unable to decide whether he should take a right or a left. His father's voice rang out in his mind, telling him about natural predators that prey on the weak. There was a cruel tone to the words that reminded Ryan that he's the prey here, seventeen and suddenly homeless. He needs to appear confident, even though he's never been here before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ratio of Freckles to Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egelantier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelantier/gifts).



> Repost of a story that was taken down from LJ for personal reasons. Please note the warnings and tags, although this story is essentially rated PG-13 and not (in my opinion) particularly violent or graphic. It still may be triggery for survivors of physical abuse, so proceed with caution.

The bus station was dirty.

Ryan peered at it through the smudged glass of the bus windows as they pulled up, ignoring the reflection of his own tangled brown hair as he strained to see the details. There was a pile of trash overflowing out of a banged-up garbage can placed near the exit of the bus, too obviously overused and uncleaned. There were tiny doors set in the wall of concrete, rows and rows of them, and Ryan knew that each would lead to an identical hallway and flight of stairs down to the first level. The tiles decorating his particular door seemed to be a faded light blue, pressed with an abstract design that faintly recalled the tones of the desert.

Ryan reached up and turned off the tiny, searing light set into the overhead compartment. It had given him a dull, throbbing headache and also kept him awake through at least five states, which meant it had served its intended purpose. 

Ryan turned away from the window and brushed his hair out of his eyes again. The other passengers on the bus seemed to be in the process of waking up from their long journey, while the bus itself suddenly seemed to slide into inertia. Ryan listened as the motor cooled with a hiss and click, the rumble of perpetual motion brought suddenly to an end. 

Behind Ryan, in the seat with the broken tray table, a mother of three was waking up from her long nap, making muted, sleepy noises as she spoke to her husband and reoriented herself in her new surroundings. Ryan clutched his paperback with one hand, trying not to envy her. A  
the greasy paper bag filled with the remains of his breakfast sat on his lap, uneaten. Every time he moved he could feel his muscles shift uneasily under the skin, a reminder of too much time spent cramped into one position. 

The woman sitting next to Ryan stood up for the first time in eight hours, stretching out with a sigh. She'd smelled like lemon dish soap and the cherries she'd brought along for the trip when she'd first sat down, and Ryan had been strangely reminded of his own grandmother. She had eaten them out of a paper bag, throwing the stems back in, telling Ryan he could have as many as he wanted--he looked like he needed it, poor thing. Ryan didn't usually trade in people's pity, but she'd winked at him as she said it and Ryan had almost smiled. He'd eaten the cherries.

She turned to him now, as they were preparing to file out, and told him to be good and trust in the Lord for his salvation. 

Ryan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. 

She stared at him for a moment longer, then brought her hand up to his shoulder, squeezing him gently. "You'll be okay, won't you," she said. "I see it now. You've got the fire in you."

Shut up, Ryan thought, reaching up to pull his backpack down from the seat rack, watching as she made her way slowly down the aisle. Shut up, you crazy old lady. You don't know anything.

 

Ryan had tried to be careful, taking only what he couldn't leave behind, but the straps of his backpack still made his shoulders ache as he carefully made his way through the doorway and down the dingy hallway. 

At the bottom of stairs, Ryan dithered, unable to decide whether he should take a right or a left. His father's voice rang out in his mind, telling him about natural predators that prey on the weak. There was a cruel tone to the words that reminded Ryan that he's the prey here, seventeen and suddenly homeless. He needs to appear confident, even though he's never been here before. 

He looked to his right and saw a sign for the restroom, with a large white arrow pointing his way. Ryan dodged the flow of the other passengers and peeled out of line, changing in a stall and stuffing his sweaty clothing into the top of his backpack. He turns his socks and underwear inside out before putting them back on. 

The mirror on top of the sink reflected his own face back at him; skinny, tired, with dark circles under his brown eyes. A small part of Ryan thought idly that he looked good this way; there was a world-weary edge, a sharpness to his features, that wasn't there before. 

The other half of him didn't give a shit, and smiled grimly at his reflection as he washed his hands in the cold water of the tap. The other half--the smart half--wished that he had any fucking clue why the hell he'd taken the first bus to Las Vegas.

\--

When Ryan was six, he met a boy named Spencer. 

It was an uneventful dream. Even when Ryan had tried to pry it out, it stayed, lodged in his consciousness like the memory of something small yet irreplaceable. The dream had begun at the daycare where Ryan's mother had dropped him off every morning, in the small rooms with high picture windows where Ryan had stared balefully at the symbols on the board and wondered if they were ever going to send him to kindergarten. Spencer had been five while Ryan was six, and Ryan knew this because Spencer had informed him very solemnly, right away.

"I'm five," Spencer had said, chin raised, and Ryan had snorted. Spencer had one leg curled underneath him, two hands on the laces of his shoes. His tongue was sticking out slightly in concentration, and his blond hair had a smear of peanut butter stuck in it.

"Let me do it," Ryan said. "I'll do it for you."

"No," Spencer said, and continuing frowning down at his shoe. "I'm not a baby."

Ryan thought about that. Spencer was right; he wasn't a baby, or at least, any more of a baby than the other kids there. Ryan mostly just wanted to go do something more exciting than sit around watching Spencer tie his shoes, and he wanted to do it now. 

"Let me tie your shoe and I'll build you a castle," Ryan said, pointing to the corner with the large, plastic blocks that snapped into one another. 

Spencer stared at him for a minute. "Okay," he said finally, and stuck his shoe out at Ryan. "I'm going to be a knight when I grow up. In a castle."

"I'm going to be Superman," Ryan told him. 

"Cool," Spencer said, and then tugged his shoe back when Ryan was done. He followed Ryan over to the corner with the blocks, watching as Ryan carefully placed them in a circle and started to build. 

"My dad isn't my dad during the week," Spencer said suddenly. "He's an, an, arch-ke-tech."

"Oh," Ryan said. 

"So you could be Superman during the week and then come with me on adventures on the weekend," Spencer said. "You could be a princess! If you were princess, I'd rescue you." 

"I don't want to be a princess," Ryan said, frowning. He placed a large yellow block on the second level. "I'm a boy."

"You'd get to live in the castle," Spencer said. "Boys can be princesses."

"Maybe," Ryan said. "But that's boring. I want to come with you and fight with swords."

"Wait," Spencer said, and then ran over to the pile of books next to the reading area. He came back with a large, hardcover book and flipped it open. The illustrations were carefully hand-drawn and painted with watercolors. "You could do that," Spencer said, pointing to a picture of a page riding behind a knight. He was carrying a banner and blowing a trumpet. "And then you could come with me and we could find princesses together."

Ryan looked down at the picture, and then back up at Spencer.

"Okay," Ryan said, and Spencer smiled at him, wide and happy. He was missing two of his teeth.

\--

Ryan's guidance counselor hadn't believed him, which was stupid. Ryan never lied about things unless it had to do with his father. He would clam up, keep his thoughts to himself, but he never outright lied. Ryan had thought Ms. Taylor knew that, but apparently he'd been wrong. 

"Tell me again how you know...Spencer," Ms. Taylor said patiently. She looked sad, and tired, and Ryan ducked his head so he didn't have to see her expression. "You said he lives in...Los Angeles?"

"Las Vegas," Ryan said softly. He picked at the hole in his jeans just above the knee, where the fabric was thin and see-through. He needed new jeans. His legs were too long for a twelve-year-old. On his good days, Ryan's father laughed at him, fluffed his hair and called him his little awkward colt. He never remembered to buy Ryan new jeans, though. "Spencer lives in Las Vegas."

"Does your father know his parents?" Ms. Taylor pressed. "Did you guys go on vacation there?"

"No," Ryan said. His wrist hurt, but he couldn't rub at it in front of Ms. Taylor. He didn't want to spend his day talking to harried social workers and fake-friendly policemen. They always called him "kiddo" and tried to get him to relax by offering to show him all the neat things a squad car could do. Ryan wasn't a kid, and he didn't care about the sirens. 

"So where did you meet him?" Ms. Taylor said gently. 

"I told you," Ryan said, glaring at her from under his baseball cap. He wasn't allowed to wear it in school, but Ms. Taylor had told him the first day that it would be okay if he wore it in her office. "I just--he's my friend, okay? We talk all the time. I'm not making it up."

"I don't think you're making it up," Ms. Taylor said. She tapped her pen against her desk, and then scribbled down something else on her notes. "But I want you to talk to Mr. Johnson about it, okay? You can go there when the bell rings. I'm writing you a pass to get out of Math."

"No," Ryan said tightly. "No, thank you. I'd rather go to Math class."

"Ryan--" Ms. Taylor said, and Ryan stood up, grabbing his backpack with one hand. "I'm not seeing Mr. Johnson," Ryan said, his voice flat. He smoothed out his features the way he always did, when his Dad was yelling at him. My face is a mask, Ryan thought to himself. It was strangely comforting, to realize that no one could see what he was thinking and use it to hurt him. "Everyone knows only freaks have to go see Mr. Johnson. If you make me go see him, I'll get beaten up for being a freak."

"By your father?" Ms. Taylor said carefully. She sounded strangely hopeful, which would have been creepy if she hadn't been trying to get Ryan to admit to it for over a year now. 

"No, by Mark and Paul Kaminsky," Ryan said, rolling his eyes. Seriously, how dumb could she get? Ryan wondered how all adults were so fucking stupid. "My father doesn't hit me," he added, a second later. "By the way."

"Of course he doesn't," Ms. Taylor said, deflating a little. "Of course he doesn't, Ryan. I know."

\--

Ryan swore the minute he stepped outside the bus station, his eyes watering in the sunlight. The heat sat lightly on top of his chilled skin, a layer of warmth that raised the fine hairs on his arms. It felt good now, but Ryan knew that within half an hour, he'd be dripping. Fucking Chicago. Ryan wasn't used to this.

He walked over to a bus stop, pretending to stand and read the schedule, the truth of his situation finally beginning to sink in through the static of the past twenty-four hours.

He was here.

He was here, and he was alone, and someone was probably finding his father's body right now. Someone was probably finding the trail of books and papers that Ryan had scattered as he walked into the house; an investigator would be finding Ryan's fingerprints on his dad's face, as he sat in the entranceway and cradled his body and cried. Ryan's footprint in the bloodstain, where he'd slipped after standing up three hours later. 

There's no way they'd believe him. If there was one thing Ryan understood, it's that no one gives a shit about some skinny kid's innocence. Ryan had the time, and the motive, and he's the only one who saw his father lumbering down the stairs, swaying drunkenly and then crashing to the bottom, taking the end table with him on the way down. 

So Ryan had done the only thing he could think of to do, which was to take a shower, pack his things, and get the fuck out of there. 

Ryan shifted his backpack on his shoulders, feeling the sweat trickle down in between his shoulder blades. He stared at the bus schedule and wondered if Spencer lived in Summerlin, maybe. It seemed to ring a bell. It was hard to remember. Sometimes Ryan's dreams were fuzzy, and when that happened Spencer was the only thing in sharp relief. 

The next bus to Summerlin was in an hour. Ryan tucked his backpack between his knees on the pavement, and sat down to wait. 

\--

"So yeah, she didn't believe me," Ryan said, kicking a stone into the lake. "She told me to go see Mr. Johnson, can you fucking believe that? And then she spent the next two years trying to get me to talk about it, like I was suddenly going to tell her everything and let them take Dad away and stick me in a group home somewhere for crazy kids."

"Dude," Spencer said, shaking his head. "That sucks." Spencer was fourteen, and had recently become obsessed with MTV, and with Blink 182, and with all things older and cooler than both of them. He said "Dude" way too much. Ryan was trying to get him to cut it out, but it seemed to be a losing battle. It's not that Ryan didn't want to be cool, but he was pretty sure that saying "Dude" in every single sentence didn't make you cooler like Spencer seems to think it did.

"Do you ever--" Ryan said, and then stopped. The sky above them was a mottled purple, laced through with orange and pink. It was pretty. They'd been making dragons out of sand, and tucking them in the sky, until Ryan had started kicking stones into the lake from the bridge. He thought this might be Spencer's dream, because Ryan had never seen this place before. 

"What if this stops working," Ryan said quietly. "When we grow up?"

"I'm grown up," Spencer said quickly, pushing his hair away from his face. It was getting long; Ryan thought he needed a haircut, but he also liked Spencer's hair, dark brown and curly around the edges. "Dude," Spencer added belatedly, after a moment.

Ryan shook his head. "No, I mean--" he said. "What if. What if she's right? Maybe we're just crazy. Maybe this is because Dad smacked me around in the head too many times."

"Ryan," Spencer said firmly, reaching over and lacing their hands together. He squeezed, hard, and Ryan could feel it all the way down to his bones. "You know I'm real. You know it. What's my address?"

"267 Wisteria Drive," Ryan parroted back, immediately. He'd looked it up, once, at the library, and gotten that strange twisting feeling in his gut when he realized it was a real place. It was a real address, and Spencer lived there, and Ryan hadn't known how to deal with that so he sort of just pushed that information away until he needed it.

"What school do I go to?" Spencer said, looking fierce. "What's my favorite color? When is Dad's birthday? What's my social security number?"

"Middletown Prep," Ryan said, hiding a smile. "Blue, May 29th, and dude, I don't know. What is your social security number?"

"I have no idea," Spencer admitted, looking slightly sheepish. "But your name is Ryanwell Langlely and you go to St. Mark's Day School in Chicago and you've always wanted a dog and you hate avocado and you really want to kiss Julian Thomas and also Miranda Kemp but you weren't going to tell me about the first one."

"I--what?" Ryan said, tugging his hand back. "No," he said belatedly, because how the hell did Spencer figure that one out?

"Yes," Spencer said blithely. "Whatever, that's not the point, okay? You know I'm real."

"People don't meet each other in dreams, Spencer," Ryan says, tipping his head back to look up at the sky. Spencer's sand-dragon was only a hint of a cloud, now, a faint blot against the horizon. "I'm just kind of screwed up, that's all."

"Then I'm screwed up in the Spencere way," Spencer said, smiling a little. It was a sad sort of smile, one that commiserated with Ryan, for all Spencer's protestations. "We can be screwed up together."

Ryan looked at him for a long moment, silhouetted against the burning sky. "Okay," he said, finally. "Yeah. To hell with it. Okay."

\--

The bus hadn't come. Ryan checked his watch, and then he asked two people for the time, but there's no getting around the fact that the bus was supposed to be here at 2:35 and it's now 3:10. Ryan went inside and bought a cup of coffee, decaf, because his hands were shaking and he didn't want to make it worse. Ryan had two-hundred and thirty-seven dollars and sixteen cents tucked away in the inside lining of his backpack, and his father died twenty-three hours ago. He knew rationally that they would find him. Running away was stupid and pointless, but if Ryan was going to be taken away from everything he knows he at least wanted to see Spencer before it all goes to hell. 

And he couldn't do that if the goddamn bus wouldn't show up. 

He looked up when someone sits down next to him, ready to flee, but it was just the old woman from the bus. She nodded at the cup in his hand. "Coffee's pretty terrible," she said, pursing her lips. "Had some myself this afternoon. Worst I've had in years."

"Yeah," Ryan muttered. He hunched his shoulders in. Maybe if he was rude enough, she might go away. 

"Where you going," she said, after a long pause. "Young boy like you, you must be going somewhere."

"None of your business," Ryan said stiffly. God, this sucked. He just wanted the fucking bus to come, but the next one isn't scheduled to arrive until 4:16. He doesn't know what to do.

"Probably not," the woman agreed. She sat back, cracking her neck a little and tugging her bag closer to her chair. "But I know what it's like to run away from something. Running doesn't get you nowhere."

"Listen," Ryan said, his resolve cracking. He tried to smooth out his features, to give her his best look of 'go the fuck away,' but there's a crack starting somewhere below the surface and Ryan didn't know how long he can hold it. "I don't know you, okay? You don't know me. Just leave me alone."

"How long until your bus comes?" the woman said, like Ryan's talking to someone else. Ryan blinked. It was as if he hadn't even spoken; she was still looking at him with that Spencere expression, one of infinite kindness lurking below the scratched surface. Her face was lined with age, and she had a scar on her left temple. 

"An hour," Ryan said, eventually. She _hmm_ 'ed in response, and pulled a thermos out of one of her bags. Ryan wanted to ask if she had an entire fucking Shop-n-Save hidden away in there, maybe a Wal-Mart as well, because he didn't know where she kept getting all this random shit from. 

"So we wait," the woman said. "And maybe I'll tell you about me, and you can tell me about you, and we'll pass the time. I can't stop you from running, but I can give you a bit of rest in the meantime."

"Who the fuck--," Ryan said, and then stopped himself. "I don't know you," he said again, slowly, in case she didn't get it the first time around. "I don't need your pity." He wasn't expecting her to tip her head back and laugh, a full-bodied laugh that shook every inch of her body, down to her shoes. 

"Pity," she said, grinning to herself. "Pity. Oh, that's rich. I like you, boy. You want some hot chocolate?"

"No," Ryan said faintly. 

"It's better than the coffee," she said, and poured herself a cup-full. "Made it myself. Old-fashioned, on the stove-like. Cream instead of milk. I don't like that instant stuff. Tastes wrong."

"I--" Ryan said, shaking his head. He was rapidly losing the ability to deal with this situation in a rational manner. "Okay," he said. "Sure. I'll try it. Why the fuck not."

"Good," she said, and nodded approvingly, like he's doing something right. "You need fattening up. Tell Spencer that, when you get where you're going."

Ryan dropped the cup on his feet. It was barely lukewarm. Ryan couldn't feel it, because his breath was coming in short gasps and everything suddenly felt thick and numb.

"No," Ryan choked out. "No. I don't know how the hell you--no. I need to go. I need to--" He fumbled for the strap of his backpack with shaky hands.

"Sit down," the woman said, giving him a tired look. "You think you're the only one who travels in dreams, boy? You think it's just you? That you're special? I'll tell you a secret." She leaned in closer and Ryan was frozen in place, not quite daring to move.

"You aren't special," the woman said. "There's a whole world out there. Millions of people, just like you, and maybe a few of them can do what you do. What we can do. But you'll learn, and you'll see, and for god's sakes, boy, _breathe_ , you're going to get yourself lightheaded."

"I don't," Ryan said. His head was spinning, just a little. He had to force the words out, and even then they came out soft and scared. "I didn't think I was special."

"I didn't think you did," the woman said. "I'm just sayin it so's you'll hear it. Special means _responsibility_ , and lord knows you've got enough of that."

"Right," Ryan said. "How. How do you--"

"I wasn't spying," the woman said, giving him a disapproving look. "If that's what you're asking."

Ryan swallowed around the lump in his throat. He reached down and picked up the cup, drying it off on his sleeve and handing it back to her. "You know about Spencer," he said. "And my--you know about Da--"

The woman shrugged. "We all need to get to where we're going," she said. "And where you're going, is him. Ain't that hard to see."

"So he's real," Ryan said, and as the words left his lips it felt like everything inside him was tumbling out, fear and worry and hope all at once. He'd been pressing it down so far he hadn't even known it existed. 

" 'Course he's real," the woman said, slightly grumpy. "What are you, new?"

\--

Ryan's favorite dream was the one with Lera the cat, and Spencer, and a raft and clear blue skies as far as they could see. Ryan didn't know exactly where Lera came from, or if she was real; she started following him around at some point, a sleek gray cat with hazel eyes. She was curled up on his shoulder right now, purring quietly into his ear. Ryan tipped his head back against the sun-warmed wood of the raft, and rubbed his bare feet over the planks. Spencer was dozing next to him, lying on his stomach with his face tucked into the crook of his arm. All Ryan could hear is the sound of waves. 

Ryan blinked slowly, pressing his eyelids together to try and chase the sparkle behind them. The sun felt good on his bare chest.

Spencer rolled over, then, yawning a little and flailing an arm out to skim his hand over Ryan's stomach. 

"Hey," Ryan said

"Hey," Spencer said. His hair was a messy tangle. "How long have I been asleep for?"

"Not that long," Ryan said. He shifted a little, and Lera made an affronted noise. She curled her back and stretched, then walked carefully over to Spencer. She studied him for a moment, and then pounced.

"Oof," Spencer said. Lera stared at him from her perch on his stomach, and Spencer grinned. "When did you get here?"

"She just showed up," Ryan said, shrugging his shoulders against the planks of the raft. "You know."

"Yeah," Spencer said. "I wonder--do you think any food could show up, as well?"

"I don't know," Ryan said. He closed his eyes and thought about root-beer floats and french fries and grilled cheese sandwiches, and when he opened them again, Spencer was rummaging around in a wooden basket with a cloth over the top. Lera was stalking the edge of the raft, staring down into the water with her tail waving. Spencer pulled out a tall, frosty glass and handded it to Ryan. Condensation dripped from the outside.

"Fuck, I'm glad that worked," Ryan said. "I was starting to get really thirsty."

"It's really hot out," Spencer agreed. "It kind of--it feels good, though. It's too hot in Vegas. No water."

"You have swimming pools," Ryan pointed out, sipping from the glass in careful, measured sips. "And hoses."

"Yeah," Spencer sayid. "Yeah, but it's not the Spencere. You don't get a breeze off a pool."

"Right."

"So," Spencer said, mumbling around the bite of sandwich in his mouth. "You want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" Ryan said, even though he knows exactly what Spencer means. They only come here when Ryan really needs a break, when he's had a terrible fucking day. Spencer had figured it out years ago, although Ryan's not really sure how. 

"Shut up," Spencer said. "You know what. You okay?"

"Yeah," Ryan said. "Yeah, I'm fine." He rolled his injured shoulder a little. It's not bruised yet, but it will be; he could already see the dark spots forming on his forearm, on the inside of his wrist. "It's not so bad."

"You say that every time," Spencer said quietly. "Every fucking time, Ryan. When is it going to be too bad, huh? I just--there has to be a line. You can't keep--"

"Spencer, there isn't another option," Ryan said tiredly. He put the glass down; suddenly he was no longer thirsty. "You know that. Just--fuck, don't remind me, okay? If I could--"

"I fucking told you," Spencer said. "I told you. Save up the money. Fuck, I'll pay half of it, you know I will. I've got--"

"Two hundred and sixty one dollars in the back of your closet, I know, Spencer," Ryan said. "I know. But what the hell would you tell your parents? 'Hi, this is Ryan, we're dream-friends, I promise I didn't find him on the street?' "

"Sure," Spencer said. "Why not?" His mouth is tight around the edges. 

"I can't do that," Ryan said, so soft he could barely even hear himself. "Spencer, you have a life. You have a family. I'm not taking that away from you."

"What if I didn't give you a choice?" Spencer said, staring out into the distance. "Ryan, what then?"

\--

"Just call me Ms. A," the woman said, when Ryan asked. "S'what everyone calls me. The kids down the block, my friends, heck, even my grandchildren. Granny A, you know. I'm used to it."

"Okay," Ryan said. He watched as a younger couple took a seat in the bus station. Brand new sneakers, overstuffed camping backpacks, fancy name-brand sunglasses. Ryan looked down at his old, scuffed shoes and wondered what it must be like to have that much money. Ryan wondered if they were happy. 

"Do you think they're happy?" he said, turning to the woman. He didn't know why he was asking, but it seemed suddenly, vitally important. "That couple over there. The tall guy, and the blond girl."

Ms. A gave them a considering look. She pursed her lips. "Maybe," she said. "But there's three kinds of happiness, you know. There's the kind you can buy, the kind you're born into, and the kind you aren't."

"Oh," Ryan said. And then, "What?"

"People say money can't buy happiness," Ms. A said, with a wry smile. "But they're wrong. It can. Oh, it can, but it's not the right kind of happiness. That's where people mess up."

"So you think--"

"I think they've got one of the three," Ms. A said, cutting him off. "But I'm not going to tell you which one. That's for you to figure out."

"You're really fucking annoying," Ryan said, because apparently this crazy old lady didn't notice when he was being a jerk, and so he felt free to speak his mind. 

Ms. A tipped her head, a sort of _what can you do?_ movement. She didn't seem phased. Ryan wondered if her grandchildren found her equally annoying. Probably not. Ryan felt certain that there was some special aura surrounding grandmothers, or at least the grandmother that belonged to you. 

"It seems to me," she said. "That you have a choice."

"I don't have any choices," Ryan said, slumping back into his seat. "Hell, you read my mind, or whatever creepy shit you pulled. You know that."

"You do," Ms. A said. "You just can't see it. Ryan, you don't have to go back, once you're there." She looked over over the rows of plastic seats, past the harried travelers and into the sunlight pouring in through the glass panels which fronted the building.

Ryan swallowed. "You mean like," Ryan said. "You mean. Like. If I never woke up?"

"Yes and no," Ms. A said. "I'm not saying--don't get any foolish ideas. Killing yourself won't solve anything, boy, and you'll be a hell of a lot worse off in the end. But there's a way--you and this Spencer, if you're both there. If you both want it badly enough, you can--stay."

"No," Ryan said immediately. "No. I'm not doing that to him. No fucking way."

"Like I said," Ms. A said, shrugging. "It's a choice." 

\--

When Ryan was seventeen, he'd gotten stuck taking an Art class for his elective credits. He'd wanted Art History, or Music Performance, but his schedule wasn't flexible enough to accommodate either of those. It wasn't that Ryan minded visual art; it was that he was expected to produce some of it, and he was absolutely terrible. He'd seized on the concept of abstract forms and pushed it to the limit, because every time he tried to draw it came out lopsided and strange, like a child's hesitant scratches. Photography, too--Ryan had borrowed his Dad's old SLR, a beat-up Canon AE-1, stealing it from the attic after his father has passed out. He knew his dad would never notice, and he didn't. 

For his final project, Ryan had chosen to do a Mixed Media series. He picked lines out of poems, out of novels, out of newspaper clippings, out of songs. Each one was illustrated with a 4 x 4 image. 

For "Strike us like matches, because everyone deserves the flames," Ryan had picked a far-away shot of his father, out of focus and purposefully blurry. He'd taken it through the stairwell in the morning, lying on his stomach and breathing lightly so he wouldn't hear. The only things in focus were two Advil lying next to a glass of water on the kitchen table.

For "All of us might wish at times that we lived in a more tranquil world, but we don't," Ryan had taken a picture of the bus stop down the street from his house. The crumbling buildings and solemn faces were shot through with the searing light of early morning, sparkling on the lens and refracting in concentric circles over the image. 

For "In the confusion we stay with each other," Ryan had painted over a photograph snipped from a travel magazine. The heavy white paint made the scene blurry and indistinct, dulling the bright sheen of the original. Ryan had pressed his hand to the paint before it dried, leaving two delicate hand-prints in the center, one over-lapping the other. 

The piece was subtitled, for Spencer.

\--

Twenty six hours in, exhaustion hit Ryan like a brick wall, leaving him shaky and breathless. 

"You okay, boy?" Ms. A said, in the middle of a story about her sixth grandchild, a girl named Amanda. "You don't look so good."

"I--yeah," Ryan said. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the plastic chairs. He can't fall asleep here, Ryan knew this, but maybe he could doze. Just--just rest his eyes for a little while. That's all he needed. Maybe--

"Boy?" Ms. A said, softly. Ryan's body was slowly relaxing; his breathing was evening out into something slow and steady. He didn't respond. 

\--

Ryan wook up with a gasp.

"Shit," Ryan said, before he was even awake enough to move his limbs properly. His heart was pounding in his chest. He had no idea what time it was. "Shit, shit shit--"

" 'Morning," Ms. A said lightly. "Sleep well?"

"Fuck," Ryan said. The clock on the wall said 4:24. He'd missed the bus. Again. "I can't fucking believe this," Ryan said. Anger rose up in his chest, hot and sudden, mixed with fear. He couldn't stay here--it will be dark soon--and what if this kept happening, what if--

"Calm down," Ms. A said, gently but firmly, and it's only then that Ryan realizes he's talking out loud. "You needed the sleep. And you won't be here all night, boy. Look."

"How do you fucking know?" Ryan shot back. The fear in his gut was making him breathless, too tight around the edges. "You don't know that, you can't, this isn't--"

"Look," Ms. A said, and tilted her head towards the door. There was a young man standing just inside it, keys clutched in his hand. He looked slightly confused, as though he wasn't sure why he was standing there. Ryan cut himself off in mid-sentence. He was suddenly, abruptly certain he's going to pass out.

"That's him, isn't it?" Ms. A said. "Your friend. You should go tell him you're here."

Ryan could speak. Spencer was slightly taller than he was in Ryan's dreams, as though his dream-self hasn't quite caught up to his height. He was fiddling with his car keys absent-mindedly, one hand smoothing over the electronic fob. He was wearing sneakers and gym shorts and a slightly sweaty t-shirt. He looked like he just finished working out. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder, and his hair was sticking to his forehead and he was just. 

Perfect. 

"Fuck," Ryan said, softly. He wanted to get up and throw himself at Spencer and he wanted to grab his things and run as far away as possible. He didn't know what to do. The part where he actually met Spencer was always a blank in his head, because if he thought about it too long he'd start breathing funny. 

Ms. A nodded at Ryan. "Well," she said. "Looks like it's time for one of us to go, at least. Nice talking to you, boy. You think about what I said." She turned her body slightly, looking straight at Spencer, and then very firmly waved to get his attention. Ryan watched as Spencer saw the movement out of the corner of his eye; he turned, frowning slightly, and then his eyes widened and he dropped his keys. 

Ryan swallowed. 

Spencer bent over slowly, keeping his eyes on Ryan. He picked up the keys and then he was walking towards them with a careful stride, a tightly controlled movement that suggested that if he were anywhere but in a crowded bus station, he'd be running. He stopped in front of Ryan, and the moment stretched out until Ryan couldn't take it any longer. Spencer had freckles. Spencer never had freckles in his dream. Ryan wanted to run his fingers over the bridge of Spencer's nose to see if he could feel them under his fingertips.

"Hi Spencer," Ryan said quietly. "Um. How. How did you--"

"Holy fucking shit," Spencer said, and then he was tugging Ryan up out of his plastic chair, hugging him until Ryan had to push away slightly and gasp for air. He felt lightheaded. "You. You fucking--Oh my god," Spencer whispered. "I thought you. And then I was like no, there's no fucking way, and you've been missing, and I--" His hands were framing Ryan's face. Ryan leaned into the touch. He couldn't help himself. 

"Yeah," Ryan said. "Yeah. It's been." He didn't want to talk about it here, in the middle of the bus station. He wanted to hold Spencer's hand and get in Spencer's parents' car and never look back. 

"You scared the shit out of me," Spencer said, and then he leaned back and turned to Ms. A. "Are you. Did you come with him?"

"We were just keeping each other company," Ms. A said. "Always need someone to talk to on the road. Feed him up now, you hear? He's too skinny." 

Spencer blinked. "Uh," Spencer said. "Right." 

"Mmm," Ms. A said. "Ryan, you think about what I said."

"Okay," Ryan said. "Yeah." He was leaning down to grab his other bag when it occurred to him that he should probably say thank you. "Uh," Ryan said quietly. "And thanks. Sorry for swearing at you a lot." Ms. A was digging in the bottom of her purse; she paused for a moment, and then continued her search, pretending not to hear him.

"Let's go," Spencer said. "Here, give me that." He shouldered Ryan's bag, and Ryan followed him out into the sunlight. Their shoulders touched all the way to the car.

\--

The late-afternoon sunlight was hot on Ryan's skin, even with the cooling whisper of the air-conditioner hemmed in by the windows of Spencer's father's hatch-back.

"He's dead, isn't he," Spencer said, as he was reversing out of the parking space. Ryan choked on the bottle of water that Spencer had picked up from the floor of his car and told Ryan he could drink. A small part of Ryan had been waiting for awkward small talk; he should have known Spencer wouldn't bother with formalities. 

"What?" Ryan said, even though he knew it was useless. 

"Your dad," Spencer said. "Come on, Ryan. I'm not fucking stupid. There's only one reason you'd come out here, and that's--"

"Maybe I just wanted to see you," Ryan said. "Maybe Chicago was cramping my style." 

"Did you do it?" Spencer asked, a little quieter. "I just. I need to know." There's no condemnation in his voice. Ryan closed his eyes and shook his head. 

"No," Ryan said. "I was just there, that's all."

Spencer turned and looked at him for a long moment. Sunlight tipped the edges of his eyelashes with a halo of blond. "Okay," Spencer said. "So what do we do?"

"There isn't a 'we,' " Ryan said. "I just wanted to see you before they caught up with me." 

"Of course there's a fucking 'we,' " Spencer said. He faced forward and accelerated onto the on-ramp, shifting the gearshaft with one hand while he kept his foot on the clutch. Ryan was secretly impressed. He still didn't have his license, and he certainly didn't know how to drive stick. "I'm not letting you do this alone."

"I'm not fighting with you about this," Ryan said. He rubbed his eyes. "I"m really fucking tired." 

"So don't fight with me," Spencer said. "Let me come with you. I'll figure it out. I have savings--"

"Spencer, this isn't some fucking--this is the real world," Ryan said. He's so, so tired, and Spencer was here and real and Ryan just wanted to lie down with him and sleep forever. "I can't snap my fingers and make this go away. What about your parents? What about school? You can't just drop it all for some kid you've never met--"

"You're right," Spencer said, calmly. "Doing that for someone I've never met would be crazy."

"I--okay," Ryan said, blinking. He was suddenly suspicious. That was too easy. Spencer never went down without a fight.

"But I'm going to do it for you," Spencer continued. "Because I'd be a fucking idiot not to."

"I won't let you," Ryan said. "I'll leave in the middle of the night. You're not coming with me." 

"You won't, Ryan. Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying," Ryan said. "But you're being an idiot about this."

"That's nice," Spencer said. He braked and then changed lanes, flipping on his turn signal. "Anyway. Have you eaten? You should eat something."

"You're not my fucking mother," Ryan snapped, because there was always another way to get Spencer to leave, and that was to piss him off enough that he got fed up and left Ryan alone. It hurt, deep down inside, but Ryan pushed it away. 

"God, I hope not," Spencer said. "And don't be a dick, Ryan. That shit doesn't work with me."

"Fuck you."

"Yup," Spencer said. "Pizza, or sandwiches?"

\--

Spencer stopped for sandwiches somewhere in Summerlin, pulling into a spot on the side of the main road. There were paved walkways and faux-vintage streetlights and everything was carefully manicured to perfection. Young women pushed strollers in brand-new sneakers while talking on their phones and handing juice-boxes down to their fussy children. Ryan felt like he was in the Twilight Zone. At least the bus station had been familiar, in a dirt-caked sort of way. 

"You okay?" Spencer said, sotto-voice, as Ryan was getting out of the car. "You don't look so good. You want to just go home?"

"It's fine," Ryan said, faintly. He couldn't stop staring. Spencer lived in the Twilight zone. In all of their dreams, all of their adventures, he'd never seen Summerlin. Spencer had never shown him the town. 

Ryan didn't belong here, not at all. 

"Do you want to wait in the car?" Spencer said. "What do you want? I'll go in and get it for you."

"I'll come in," Ryan said. He tightened his hand on the strap of his backpack. There was a smear of dirt on his cheek, and he rubbed at it through the reflection in the store window. "I don't know what I want."

"Okay," Spencer said. Ryan followed him in, under the blue-and-white striped awning and into the sudden temperature drop of air conditioning working at full blast. The kids behind the counter had perfect hair and perfect makeup and perfect smiles; even the strands of hair that had escaped the ponytail of the cash register girl were artfully placed. Her nails were silver, with purple tips.

"Hi Spencer," she said, and smiled. "How was practice?"

"Uh," Spencer said. "Good, yeah. Katie, can I get a number six, please? No mayo. And Ryan, um, what did you--"

"Just turkey," Ryan said quietly. "Lettuce and tomato. Thanks." He shouldn't be here. What if that was Spencer's friend? His real friend, not some poor slob from Chicago who hadn't showered in three days. Ryan wished he'd stayed in the car. 

On the other hand, Spencer didn't seem to like Katie that much. He avoided eye contact, and gave her the lowest common denominator of pleasant conversation before hustling Ryan out through the door and getting back in the car.

"Your town is nice," Ryan said, when they were back on the main road and heading out towards Spencer's parent's house. "It's. Everything's so pretty." Ryan didn't say, _it's perfect. You're perfect. You should stay here. You belong here._

"I fucking hate this place," Spencer said, with a sudden vehemence. "It's. I know you mean well, but trust me, Ryan. This place is hell."

"Oh." 

"It looks nice," Spencer said, a little quieter. "I know it does. But don't forget I met you, Ryan. I met you because I was running away."

"Why?" Ryan said. He couldn't fathom it. Every two blocks, another perfectly manicured street light flew by. The roads had names like "Pleasant Glen" and "Honeysuckle Drive." Ryan had grown up in project housing, where he was lucky if the heat worked in the winter. When he was ten, a homeless man had frozen to death in their basement. It had made all the local papers.

"Because someone made a mistake," Spencer said. "I don't belong here, Ryan. I spend every day wanting to shake people until they wake up." 

\--

When he remembers this, later, Ryan will be proud of himself for making it all the way up to Spencer's bedroom. He'd made it through the entranceway--past crumpled piles of shoes, Crystal's favorite blue flipflops and Spencer's black Adidas sneakers and Ginger's comfortable, low-heeled Doc Marten mary-janes, all of them scattered in a pile. Through the living room, with its broken-in couches and wall-to-wall carpeting--up the stairs, the walls framed by family photographs in brown wooden frames--and down the hallway, into Spencer's room. 

It's exactly how Ryan had imagined it, and maybe that's why the sense of panic rises up in Ryan's chest as soon as he walks through the door.

"Here, sit," Spencer says, brushing a space off on his bed, knocking books and clothing onto the floor. "I'm sorry it's such a mess, I mean, I'm sure you knew it would be, but I just--"

"It's okay," Ryan says, faintly. He can't seem to make his legs move. There's a rushing in his ears; Spencer is suddenly hazy in his vision, unfocused like he's underwater. The air in his lungs feels thin, all of a sudden. Ryan can't breathe. 

"Ryan?" Spencer says, frowning. "Are you--shit, are you okay?"

Spencer's talking to him, he is, but the words are lost somewhere in Ryan's head. He can't look down, he realizes suddenly. Can't look down, because there's blood on his hands. He'd scrubbed and scrubbed, but what if it's still there? He can't do this to Spencer--Spencer's perfect house--Spencer's perfect life--

"Ryan," Spencer says, and the word comes out frantic. He's reaching out for Ryan, and Ryan jerks away without thinking. He can't touch anything--He can't--

\--It's so dark, why is everything so dark? 

At least the floor is soft, Ryan thinks hazily, before he's not thinking about anything at all.

\--

Consciousness come slowly, in measured degrees. Ryan feels the odd sensation of a feather comforter underneath him, the strange give-and-take of movement on an uneven surface. There's someone warm pressed up against him. They're running their hands through his hair. The afternoon light flickers on the backs of his eyelids. 

"Ryan, come on," Spencer says, soft and scared. "We're here, it's okay. You can wake up."

"Mmm," Ryan says. He tries to burrow deeper. His body feels heavy. 

"We're dreaming," Spencer says quietly. "Ryan, open your eyes. Look out the window."

"Wha?" Ryan mumbles, and opens his eyes. They're in Spencer's room--the Spencere scatter of books on the floor, the Spencere sandwiches wrapped up in paper and dropped in haste. Only when Ryan blinks, and focuses his eyes, he sees the forest outside Spencer's window. A jungle, even. There are flowers trailing up through the windowpanes, sneaking their way through the cracks. An unfamiliar bird calls love-songs to its mate. 

"You don't have any freckles," Ryan says, after he takes a good look at Spencer. "Why don't you have freckles in the dream?"

"I don't like them," Spencer says. His cheekbones have a slight flush of pink across the top. "They make me look like a little kid, dude."

"I like them," Ryan says. 

"You would," Spencer says, smiling a little. "You feeling okay? You kind of. I think you passed out. You just sort of--crumpled."

"Yeah," Ryan says. God, he missed this. It's as though everything in his life is tucked safely away behind panes of glass; when he's here, with Spencer, the only thing Ryan feels is the echo of old aches long forgotten. He remembers the panic, the sensation of falling, but it's muted and distant. His words come easier "I just. This place is too nice for me, Spence. Your house, and your life, and--I had blood on my hands. I just knew it."

"You don't," Spencer says, bringing one of Ryan's hands up to where their faces are pressed together, temple to temple. "See? Clean. You're okay, Ryan. We're safe. I promise."

"Yeah," Ryan says. He brushes some of Spencer's hair out of his eyelashes, where it's falling down and getting in the way. Spencer catches his hand and links their fingers together, and Ryan swallows. His chest feels large and bright. 

"I was thinking," Spencer says. "While you were sleeping. Because we're still in my room, and we're--this is where we are, Ryan. Right now. We're asleep on my bed in the real world, and we're here in the dream, and."

"We could go somewhere else," Ryan says. "If you wanted to, I mean."

"We don't have to," Spencer says. "That's the point. I just--fuck, you're here, Ryan. Really here. It feels so different."

"I know," Ryan says softly. He can feel Spencer's heartbeat through the palm of his hand, through the tips of his fingers. 

"I don't understand how you think I could leave you," Spencer says. "Like. Trade the real world for this? No fucking way, Ryan."

"But you don't know that," Ryan says. "Spence, you're going to, like. Grow up and go to college and meet a girl and fall in love and have babies. You'll live in a house with a fence and have 2.5 children and 1.5 dogs."

"I don't want half a kid," Spencer says, wrinkling his nose. "Or like, half a dog. Maybe only the front half. Less mess."

"You know what I mean," Ryan says, and shoves at him a little with his knee. "You have a family. You have people to take care of you."

"Would you please just get over yourself and realize I am in love with you," Spencer says. "Seriously, Ryan. You're fucking dense."'

"You aren't," Ryan says. The flowers are starting to travel through the windows, winding around the bedposts and furniture. The room smells like the earth. "You love this, Spencer. You love the dreams. Not me."

"You don't get to decide that," Spencer says. "Not everything is about you, Ryan. Sometimes it's about us. You have to trust me."

"I can't trust anyone," Ryan whispers.

"Try," Spencer says. The azaleas are traveling into the bed now, tiny shoots winding themselves into Spencer's hair and around Ryan's legs. It feels like lightening is traveling up and down Ryan's spine. There's a breeze somewhere inside of him, growing stronger. It's cool and sweet, the air pushing out through his lungs. 

"Hold onto my hands," Spencer says, and links all of their fingers together. "Come with me, Ryan. Don't leave me."

"I--" Ryan says. Spencer's close, so close that Ryan can see the faint shimmer of the stars reflected in his eyes. 

"Please," Spencer breathes out, and then his mouth is on Ryan's, and his lips are soft and warm. The breeze surges through Ryan like a hurricane, like he's on the top of a cliff above the sea. 

"Okay," Ryan whispers, against the thump of Spencer's heart beating in his chest. "Yes, I'll come. Yes, yes, fuck, Spencer--"

"Just don't let go," Spencer says. There's the sound of the ocean in his voice, and his smile is pressed up against Ryan's mouth, curving into the spaces in between them. 

Ryan curves his mouth to meet Spencer's. He closes his eyes and holds on.

\--

The posters greet everyone who walks into Chicago's metropolitan police branch. Most of them are hardened criminals, mug-shots taken with no warning. Missing persons notices are posted in the bottom left-hand corner. The officer on duty is required to check them daily against a list.

The first one is listed as Spencer James Smith. The photo shows a smiling boy with light-colored hair, against the mottled background of a school photograph. Missing since May 2004. Last seen at the Greyhound Bus Station Interchange, Las Vegas.

The second one has more text, with a notice indicating the suspect is still wanted for questioning regarding a homicide. The picture is blurred and faded, a young man looking away from the camera in profile. His hair is in his eyes, and he's standing in front of a crumbling building facade. George Ryan Ross, the text reads. Missing since April 2004. Last seen in Chicago.

The poster of George Ross is starting to tear at the bottom. 

The officer on duty patches it up with scotch tape, just in case. You never know. Sometimes you get lucky that way.


End file.
